Page 7 of My Ex-Military Mountain Man

I've grown accustomed to being unseen up here. The few interactions I have with the outside world—supply deliveries, occasional consultations with wildlife officials—are transactional, impersonal. People see what I present: a reclusive sanctuary owner with the necessary skills to care for injured wildlife. They don't look deeper.

Nicole looks. And something tells me she sees more than I want her to.

I sigh and finish preparing the evening meals for the raccoons and the fox, measuring supplements for each animal's specific needs. The work is precise, focused. It helps me regain equilibrium after the unexpected tour of the sanctuary. I hadn't planned to show her around, but when I saw her standing there watching me with the young buck, something compelled me to offer.

A mistake. Proximity breeds familiarity, and familiarity leads to questions I have no intention of answering.

With the nocturnal animals' meals ready, I store them in the refrigerator for later distribution. My watch shows it's almost three—the eagle should be fully conscious by now. I should return to the treatment room to check on her progress and assist with whatever follow-up Nicole requires.

I take my time walking back, deliberately slowing my pace. The afternoon sun filters through the trees, creating dappled patterns across the gravel path. In these moments, when it's just me and the sanctuary, I can almost remember what peace feels like. Almost.

As I approach the lodge, I see Nicole through the treatment room window. She's standing beside the eagle's enclosure, making notes on a tablet. Even from this distance, I can see her complete absorption in the task, her face set in lines of concentration.

I enter quietly, but Max immediately alerts her to my presence, his tail wagging once in acknowledgment. Nicole looks up, offering a small smile that I don't return.

"Perfect timing," she says. "She's awake and alert. I was just recording her vitals."

I move closer to the enclosure, keeping a professional distance from both the veterinarian and her dog. The eagle is indeed awake, her fierce eyes tracking my movement. The splint looks different: more sophisticated than my makeshift effort, but similar in principle.

"How's the wing?" I ask.

"Better than I initially feared," Nicole replies, setting down her tablet. "The joint is inflamed but the new positioning should reduce pressure on the damaged ligaments. The antibiotics are already showing effect—her temperature is down slightly."

I nod, relieved. "Recovery prognosis?"

"Still cautiously optimistic." Nicole approaches the enclosure, gesturing for me to join her. "See how she's holding the wing now? There's less tension in the shoulder. That's a good sign."

I step closer, noting what she's pointing out. The eagle's posture has indeed improved from this morning, the injured wing held in a more natural position against her body. I'm impressed that Nicole can detect such subtle changes so quickly.

"She'll need another dose of antibiotics in about an hour," Nicole continues. "And pain management before nightfall. I've prepared the medications—they're in that cooler."

Her efficiency is undeniable. In the few hours she's been here, she's not only treated the eagle but organized a comprehensive care plan. I find myself reluctantly appreciative.

"I can handle the evening medications," I offer. "You've been traveling since dawn. You should rest."

Nicole looks surprised by the consideration. "I'm fine, really. But I wouldn't mind freshening up before dinner." She hesitates. "I should have asked… Are there dining arrangements I should know about? I don't want to intrude on your routine."

The question catches me off guard. I hadn't thought about meals beyond stocking the cabin with basics. My own eating habits are irregular at best, dictated by the needs of the animals rather than conventional mealtimes.

"There's no... routine," I admit. "I usually grab something when I can. But there's food in the main kitchen if you'd prefer a proper meal."

"I'm happy to cook," she offers. "It's the least I can do in exchange for your hospitality. Do you have any preferences? Restrictions?"

The idea of someone else in my kitchen preparing food sends an uncomfortable prickle across my skin, but it would be churlish to refuse such a straightforward offer.

"No restrictions," I say finally. "Whatever's convenient."

"How about this—I'll cook tonight, you can tomorrow. That way neither of us feels obligated."

It's a reasonable compromise. Still, I find myself annoyed by her easy assumption that there will be shared meals, shared spaces. Shared anything.

"Fine," I agree shortly. "Kitchen's stocked. Help yourself to whatever you need."

She nods, apparently unfazed by my curtness. "I'll head to the cabin to clean up, then start dinner around six? We can do the eagle's evening treatment right after."

"I'll be here," I reply, though where else I would be is unclear. This mountain is my entire world now. Has been for five years.

Nicole gathers her tablet and bag.

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